Ridiculous
by Heart Torn Out
Summary: Lestrade knocks on Mycroft's door, but it isn't Mycroft who answers. Kid!fic in which there is plenty of Mystrade Mycroft/Lestrade and, well, a kid. It's like when lover meets child or when boyfriend meets child. Or when D.I. meets teen-Holmes. Try it!


**Dear people-who-read-my-crap,**

**First: you all win the internet because of the above statement.**

**Secondly, it is currently 3:00 a.m. And I am still awake. Something wrong there, I know, but my eyes won't stay open long enough for me to figure out just what.**

**Thirdly, i got bored. Again. That's a problem. I need to fix that, any suggestions? Shit like this happens whilst i am BORED. Also, i have another OTP: Mystrade, and had to write something that didn't just hint at them, but blatantly had them in big, fucking rainbowy letters.**

**Fourthly, I am not responsible for anything that the characters do. I swear, it was the plot-bunnies, not me.**

**Disclaimer: I. Do. Not. Own. ANYONE. Not even you. *sigh* **

**Current song: I have All The Young Dudes, by David Bowie stuck on repeat in my head, so that'll have to do guys. and i write these song things in the high hopes that some of you crazy guys'll actually google them and like what you hear.**

**Current thought: just tried to block my nose and sneeze. Nose-bleed insued. Do not try this at home kids. For professionals only.**

**ENJOY.**

* * *

><p><strong>Ridiculous<strong>

She has reddish brown hair and large green eyes with a splattering of freckles across her nose. Lestrade had been surprised when she had opened the door, and not someone else who was equally a Ginger, but with blue eyes and a smattering of freckles somewhere much lower. But he just gives a charming smile.

"I'm sorry but… am I at the wrong house?" Except he knows he isn't. He's been here numerous times over the past three years. He knows whose house this is.

She gives an uncertain smile, but it's beautiful nonetheless. "It depends… Who are you looking for?" she asks.

He rubs the back of his neck as he tries to wrestle with his mind. He knows who this girl is but he doesn't' _know_ her. And he can't believe he's meeting her right at this moment. He isn't supposed to meet her until later on this week. The fact that they are meeting now, at this very moment, well… He's trying to rationalize that in his mind.

"Mycroft Holmes," he says, and gives a lopsided smile.

Her pretty eyes go wide. "Oh my goodness," she says, her accent a tad more posh than his. "You… you're Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, aren't you?" There's a shy smile on her face.

Lestrade feels his face heat. No one's ever said his whole name and title with that much awe. Well, no one except Mycroft. But then, again, Mycroft has every right to.

Either way, Lestrade nods and gives a wink. "Guilty as charged."

She smiles and then stops as if she's just realized something. "He's not home." Meaning Mycroft. "Well, since you're here, you will come in."

She says it like Mycroft does: with no room for exception and Lestrade smiles a little and follows her into the house, closing the door behind him. It's a posh little estate, away from the city and out in the country. He still makes the effort to come though. It's always worth the weekends.

She leads him to a sitting room where she had previously been seated on a low couch. Around the blanket on said couch are papers and school-books along with a laptop and a cup of tea, still steaming. She smiles as she settles down and gestures to the arm-chair across from the couch. Lestrade settles down.

She makes a face then. "My goodness. Where are my manners?" She shakes her head and tucks a reddish strand of hair behind her ear. "Charlotte Holmes." There's a twinkle in her eye, one that every Holmes that Lestrade knows has. He nods and her face falls a bit. "He never told you about me, did he?" There's something fragile in her voice.

Lestrade laughs a bit at that. "On the contrary. He talks about you very much."

Charlotte's face brightens. She shrugs. "Of course he must, how silly of me to think otherwise. He has no other children to shower with praise besides _me_."

"Oh?" Lestrade says. "The Holmesian confidence rears its ugly head!"

The young girl chuckles. "I'm afraid it's genetic." She rolls her eyes. "You should see my grandmother." Charlotte gives a visible shudder.

"I'm afraid that she can't be any worse than your uncle," Lestrade says, surprised that he's getting along so well with her. He'd honestly been worried when Mycroft had finally said he'd introduce them.

Her eyes go wide. "Oh no. Uncle Sherlock," and Lestrade finds it odd to hear Sherlock addressed so, "is nothing compared to Grand'Mere. She's…" And now she looks a bit frustrated. "Well, she's quite simply Grand'Mere." Lestrade smiles a bit. "He talks about you too, you know," Charlotte says suddenly.

Lestrade makes a face. "Excuse me?"

She shrugs, taking a sip of her tea. "Daddy. He talks about you all the time." She smiles. "I must say, you do not disappoint."

Lestrade knows his face must be surprised, because Charlotte is smiling very much like Sherlock does when he's victorious. "O-oh. Well, then." He runs his fingers through his hair. "I must say, I've never seen you around the house before." He tries not to wince. That was a very self-incriminating statement. It suggests that he's been to the house before and stayed overnight.

Charlotte nods. "Well, I'm in school. A private, all-girls school." She looks displeased. "I understand why… You are aware of my father's position in the government." Again a statement. Lestrade nods anyway. "Well then, you understand also." She sighs. "It's good education, don't get me wrong. I just… so tedious. That's all. Anyway, we're on holiday now, so."

"And how old are you?" he wonders. Mycroft had only said he had a daughter and what she looked like, a bit on personality, her school-marks. Besides that, he wanted Lestrade to find out for himself.

She looks pleased that he had asked. "Sixteen as of last September." Seeing as it is December, she's just in the frivolities of the age. "And you're… 46, give or take a year or two. You have a flat in lower-east London." She makes a face. "Oh goodness, you own a motor-bike."

Lestrade closes his eyes and counts to three before he opens them and says, "You do the deduction thing too, huh?"

For a moment, Charlotte flushes, her freckles disappearing. "Yes, well, unfortunately, I'm afraid that's also hereditary."

"Mmmm, I'm aware," Lestrade says. "Remember, I work with your uncle and your father and I are…" And now Lestrade let's his voice trail off. Does she know about their relationship?

Charlotte looks like she's trying not to laugh. "You and my father are _dating_?" Lestrade nods. "I'm quite aware, Gregory." She stops now. "May I call you Gregory?"

He smiles as he shrugs out of his coat and nods. "You can call me Gregory, Greg, Lestrade, or anything in-between."

She smiles. "Gregory then." Just like her father. "As I was saying, Gregory, I am perfectly aware of the relationship you and my father have been involved in these past three years." Lestrade's a bit surprised that she knows it's been that long. Then again, she's a Holmes; he shouldn't be surprised. She smiles then, and it's unexpected. "I'm glad. What with Uncle Sherlock marrying John last spring, I thought Daddy would…well… introduce us sooner, is all."

Lestrade starts. "You know John? John Watson?"

Charlotte sighs wistfully. "Ah, yes. The wonderful army doctor who runs around London with Uncle Sherry and makes sure he doesn't get killed. I've even _met_ him," she says, sounding proud. "He is fascinating. I see what Uncle Sherry sees in him."

Lestrade raises a dubious eyebrow. "_Uncle Sherry_?"

Charlotte smiles, then winks. "Feel free to antagonize him with that. I know he needs it sometimes."

He nods then frowns. "You weren't at the wedding."

Charlotte shakes her head. "No. I had exams that entire week." She shrugs. "Daddy got it on film for me. It was wondrous."

"Wondrous indeed," Lestrade answers.

"I think Dr. Watson is absolutely amazing for Uncle Sherry," she says in response.

And now Lestrade nods. Because he agrees entirely. Now that John and Sherlock have tied the knot, well… it's not that Sherlock is subdued, it's more like someone knows how to control him now and, even better than that, can _understand_ him. It's a god-send.

"They're adorable," Lestrade teases.

Charlotte smiles evilly. "I bet you won't be thinking so when you find them shagging in your office." At Lestrade's look of horror, she giggles. "Do excuse me, that was most inappropriate. But, it had to be said."

Instead of scolding her, Greg is laughing along with her. It was quite funny. And well said.

"You're full of surprises," he says to her and she nods.

"Thank you. A question now: Sherlock and John will be back from the Americas soon, won't they?"

"Yes. Next week, I believe." They'd been on a case there for a while and were just getting back in.

"Thank you," she says again. After a minute, Charlotte blushes. "How positively horrible of me. I haven't even offered you refreshments. Would you like something? Tea? Coffee?" In a second, before he can answer, she corrects herself. "Coffee, then. With milk and no sugar." Lestrade nods; no point in denying it, she'd deduced him again.

Surprisingly, she takes her book and her tea with her and makes her way over to the kitchen, gesturing for Lestrade to follow. There's a grinder and coffee maker on the marble counter and Charlotte goes to it, preparing the coffee. Lestrade can't help the comment that comes out.

"No house-maids?"

Charlotte finishes grinding the coffee, then sets it up for brewing and starts the machine before she turns around. Her arms are crossed and she tilts her head. "No. No house-maids. I mean, there was a nanny when I was younger but, when I reached three years, I couldn't take an adult always down my neck." She shrugs again. "I guess I was more mature for my age than most tots."

"Ah," Lestrade says carefully as she takes a sip of her tea.

"And anyways, Daddy was afraid that it would make me spoiled. He's right too; I would be spoiled. More so than I am now."

Lestrade looks at her. She's not in any expensive name-brand clothing – she's simply in loose jeans and an Oxford University quarter-sleeved shirt. Her books look second-hand and the TV is normal sized in the sitting room. Besides the general splendor of the house, it's location and grounds, Greg is sure there's nothing to be spoiled about.

"How are you spoiled, exactly?" he asks.

A smile tugs up the corners of Charlotte's mouth. "I get the best schooling, I have a nice car, a trusted security detail and a loving father with a family that cares about me. And now I have John and _you_." She winks at him, and his face flushes. "You tell me, Greggie, if I'm spoiled or not."

He's a bit startled at the nick-name, but before he can protest or even ask about it, she's handing him fresh cup coffee, the cup-top absolutely steaming, the strong, bitter aroma curling into his nostrils and burning down his throat. He takes a sip and decides then and there that he is in love with it.

"Good lord, that is amazing," Lestrade murmurs.

Charlotte looks pleased with herself. "Thank you." He nods. "So, why did you come by the house today, anyway?"

Lestrade puts the coffee to the side and out of his line of sight; otherwise, he might never actually answer her. "Your father had, at an earlier date, told me that he was free today. Unfortunately, it seems that something came up. He didn't tell me, though." Lestrade shrugs. He honestly understands, and he tells Charlotte as much. "I get it; with his job, things happen and they can't wait. Hey, I got to spend some time with you because of it, so, I count that as a win."

Charlotte beams. "That's most flattering of you. And you really mean it too."

Greg shakes his head. "You did it again; you deduced me."

Her face crumples. "I _am_ sorry. Does it bother you?"

He waves a hand. "Not in the least. Remember, I work with your uncle. He does it without realizing it and, on occasion, so does your father."

Charlotte rolls her eyes. "You think _those two_ are bad? Try imaging the Christmas holiday with _Grand'Mere_. The four of us, locked in a house together, with no one _normal_ around?" She makes a rude noise. "_Please_. We deduce each other to our little hearts' content. It's like a contest to see who cries first."

"Really?"

She nods. "Very. But it'll be different this year."

"How so?" he asks.

Charlotte smiles. "Uncle Sherlock is planning on bringing John or not going at all. If he doesn't go, it'll be one less log to the fire. If he _does_ and brings John, then all of Grand' Mere's attention will be on _him_." At Lestrade's worried look- for John, of course- Charlotte amends. "Oh, don't worry about Dr. Watson, Greggie," and there's the nick-name again. "Uncle Sherry will protect him."

"Is that so?" he asks, amused.

Charlotte nods. "Of course. And, if Daddy brings you this year, as I'm sure he will, it'll be the same situation. Except you'll have Daddy _and_ me to protect you from her."

"Thank you," he responds, oddly flattered.

She nods. "Of course. Daddy will do it, I will do it." Her smile is blinding. "It's genetic."

Greg is quite for a moment before he asks carefully, "What else is genetic?" It's been bothering him, even though he knows it shouldn't. But Mycroft had never said so his next step was to ask the daughter herself.

Charlotte looks confused for a moment, a bit lost, and then she snaps back into focus and says softly, "Is that your way of directing the conversation to my parentage without sounding rude?"

He nods, slowly. "If you don't want to talk about it, I understand. I was just… wondering, is all."

She shrugs. "I suppose it's logical. If my father didn't tell you, then I should. You deserve to know." Charlotte levers herself onto the marble counter and sits there, her socked-feet dangling a few feet from the ground. "My father was….goodness! Sixteen years ago he would have been twenty-seven! How time passes." She shakes her head. "The position he is in now? He'd just attained it. And he was in Scotland doing whatever it is that he does when he met my mother."

She waits for Lestrade to speak, if he needs to, but he just shakes his head and gestures for her to go on. "Please, continue."

Charlotte nods. "So…. Well, from what I know, my father had never been with anyone. So he… tried it out. Unfortunately, that was when he discovered his… preferences. It wasn't women, is the bottom-line, so he was done with it, never returned to the thought again. Until…" Now she stops. "Well, until he got a call from her and she said she was pregnant with me. He was shocked, you understand. One time and then, BAM!" She claps her hands. "Well, you know how it goes." Lestrade nods; he's heard it enough times down at the Yard. "He waited it out, because he wanted to be sure, you see." She looks weary. "I was born at midnight on the thirteenth. Ten minutes later, my mother died, on the fourteenth."

The kitchen is deadly quiet for a few moments, and then Lestrade is saying, "I'm so sorry."

Charlotte waves a hand at him. "Don't be foolish. I never even knew the woman. And, well, you can't miss what you never had in the first place."

He nods then says, "So… Mycroft just… took you in?"

She shakes her head. "No, he had a legal right to me. She didn't even name me, but, he was there at my birth so he took care of everything. Then demanded a paternity test." Charlotte shrugs. "Honestly, I'd have done the same. Needless to say, it came back positive. So then he took me."

"Oh," Lestrade answers. That had answered all of his questions, actually.

"One mistake and that was it," she adds.

Lestrade frowns. "Hang on just a bit, you're not a mistake. You shouldn't say that about yourself."

"Funny, that's what Daddy says to me when I say that."

"Well he's right," Lestrade says.

"I'm only being _realistic_," she pouts. "He made a mistake and I was the result." Lestrade sighs- because she's like Sherlock in that she means what she says but doesn't mean anything by it, just says it because it's true, he can tell- but pays attention when she goes solemn."When I was ten, I got this crazy thought into my head that I wasn't really his. Demanded my own test. He brought me in to do it, right in front of my eyes so I could be sure that no one was cheating me." She has a hollow look in her eyes, weary. "Wrong, I know. And it hurt him, I can see that now and even then, after it was all said and done. But it still came back positive, so."

"_I think_," Lestrade says softly, carefully, as if he were talking to one of the crazy criminals he has to talk down every day from doing something stupid, "I think that you were just a child. And that you needed some proof of your own."

She blinks a bit, comes back to the then and now. "Thank you for that."

There's a moment of awkward silence, and of course there'd be. Lestrade couldn't have hoped for their first meeting to go perfectly, although he thought it was going quite well. So then he says, "So, how is Mycroft when it comes to you and boys?" He wiggles his eyebrows playfully. "Any _special_ young men in your life?"

The change of subject works and her face becomes immediately amused. "Have you met my father?" Charlotte shakes her head. "Ever wonder why I am in an all girls school?" Lestrade laughs. "No. No boys. None of them dare come near, they all can feel the vibe of 'off limits' hanging over me." There's a small, pleased smirk on her face. "And anyways, I'm not interested."

Greg chortles in disbelief. "You say that now, but you'll see."

"Oh no, Greggie," and now he's used to it and, _damn him_, kind of fond of the name, "I can assure you. I. Am not. Interested."

He stops, puzzled. "What do you mean by that…?"

Before she can answer, the front door swings open. Lestrade doesn't immediately go for his gun, but only because there's a shite-ton of security between the front gates and that front door, so he assumes that whoever's walking through it has a right to be.

His suspicions are confirmed when Anthea clip-clops into the kitchen in high, red stilettos and a jet-black, tailored skirt suit, her auburn, unruly hair pinned neatly to her head, her face made-up. She looks gorgeous. Her Blackberry is in her hands and she's typing away. When she looks up and finds Lestrade staring, she only raises a perfectly tweezed eyebrow. "Mr. Holmes will be in shortly." And then, oddly enough, her gaze meets Charlotte's.

And then Charlotte's cheeks go red. And Charlotte looks away.

_Oh_.

"Ms. Holmes. I was unaware you were back home," Anthea says, and Lestrade is sure that that is the first time that he has ever seen the woman speak to someone when it was unnecessary to.

Charlotte looks up and beams. "Ms. Anthea," she says, ever polite, but there's a subtle thrill in her voice that Lestrade can _just_ pick up on. "How nice it is to see you! And yes, I am home. We're on holiday for the next few weeks. For Christmas." Charlotte looks a bit embarrassed at the unnecessary rambling.

And then, Anthea walks over and stands beside her. The mobile goes into her bag, which she sets down on the floor and she delicately picks up the book from where it had been discarded on the counter and leans against the marble to read the title. Charlotte looks absolutely chuffed and sends Lestrade a grin.

"Catch-22," Anthea muses. "Is that what they're making you read these days?"

Coloring again, Charlotte explains, "Um…no. No, that's just a pleasure reading book. We're reading Hamlet in class, but I've read it a million times, so I-I decided to pick that up and…give it a go."

Anthea looks impressed. "You chose this? Impressive. It's a very good book. A favorite of mine." She puts the novel onto Charlotte's lap with a smile. "I hope you enjoy it."

The young girl looks as if she's about to melt as she nods. "I _do_. I mean, yes. Yes, I wager I will. Thank you."

Anthea smiles, gives her knee a pat and then nods blankly to Lestrade as she makes her way out of the kitchen. As soon as she's gone, Charlotte holds the book up to her chest and presses against it as she sighs.

"Told you I'm not interested in boys," she says a bit wistfully. "Sometimes I wish I was though. Liking girls is so hard. _Especially_ that one." She looks off into the general direction in which Anthea left. "No wonder you, Daddy, Uncle Sherry and John don't bother doing it."

Lestrade laughs a bit. "Does your father know?"

Her face goes dark then, so his goes serious. "No. Not about Anthea or my preference." Lestrade feels special then, that she's entrusted him with her secret. Her face turns terrified in seconds, though. "You won't…. you won't tell him… will you?"

"Of course not," Lestrade says. He holds up his hand. "You have my word."

She smiles. "And the word of a D.I. is always good. You know, ever since my father started telling me about you, I've been looking into your line of work."

He's strangely embarrassed and honored all at once. "You want to be a copper?"

Charlotte shrugs. "I want to help England. But… I don't want to do it in the shadows, like Daddy does, important as his job is. I want people to know I'm there to help. Being a copper seems just fine to me."

"They're always ungrateful," Greg says, "even after you save their lives. And you see terrible things, and terrible tossers who do these terrible things. And the hours are shite and it's all just a huge pain in the arse."

"I know," she says good humouredly. "So Daddy has said. So you have said, now. But still. Do you think I can do it?"

She's honestly asking him, so he honestly says, "I think that you, young missy, are capable of whatever you put your mind to."

And at that point, Mycroft walks in.

He's shocked into stillness at the sight of Lestrade with no coat, leaning against the kitchen table drinking coffee and Charlotte, sitting on the counter drinking tea. His light eyes go wide for a moment before they return to normal size and he absorbs this information, while simultaneously readjusting to the situation.

"I should have realized that you would come, Gregory. My sincere apologies for not informing you of my… slight delay," Mycroft says carefully.

Sharing a sly look with Charlotte, Lestrade shrugs, puts down the coffee, strides up to Mycroft and says, "You're forgiven, then, since you apologized so nicely," and kisses him right on the mouth.

The shock is imminent and Mycroft is frozen beneath his lips, so that when he pulls back, Mycroft looks traumatized. Behind him, Charlotte cackles. "Gregory!" Mycroft exclaims in a whisper.

"Yes?"

"…you…and…oh my…" is all that comes out of his mouth.

Charlotte rolls her eyes and hops down. She walks over to them and separates the two of them, so that she can stand in front of her father. She crosses her arms. "I'm cross with you, Daddy."

Mycroft looks baffled, and then he turns to Lestrade who raises his hands in surrender, just as confused. "Why ever would that be, blossom?"

She points to Lestrade now, who shies away from the obtrusive digit. "Because you were keeping that wonderful creature from me all this time." She shakes her head dramatically and Lestrade can't help but think, _Is that genetic as well_? "Yes, it is," she answers him. At his surprised look, she says tiredly, and much too much like _Sherlock_ for his liking, "And no, I am not reading your mind. I'm just reading _you_."

"_Charlotte_," Mycroft starts to reprimand, but she cuts him off.

"Anyway, I just wanted to express my delight at finally meeting your…_boyfriend_, and my desire to forcibly drag him- only if we _must_ drag him- to Grand 'Mere's house for Christmas, if you weren't going to already." She leans in on her tip-toes, gives Mycroft's cheek a kiss, winks at Lestrade and then walks out of the kitchen saying, "Oh, and put that _blasted_ umbrella away. It's not even bloody _raining_."

The two men are left in the kitchen and wait until they hear the sound of the blankets shifting and the telly going on, as a courtesy.

"I hope she wasn't too much trouble?" Mycroft actually _asks_, for once.

Lestrade wraps his arms around the British Government's waist. "She was _wonderful_. Don't be daft." He kisses Mycroft then, properly, without teenage daughters around or assistants watching.

"I am sorry that I fuddled up our earlier arrangements," Mycroft then says once they part.

Lestrade chuckles. "Honestly? I'm not. I met someone wonderful today."

"Oh really?" Mycroft teases. "I am envious. Who might that be?"

"Oh, no one important. Just five feet of trouble and sauciness. Who wants to be a copper. By the way, I'm flattered."

"Ah, yes. She spoke to you. Good. I recommended that she should when she I introduced the two of you."

"Are you two done necking in there?" they hear from the sitting room and Mycroft looks as if he'll die of embarrassment. "Because if you're not, that's fine, it's just… well, there's a Torchwood marathon on and Daddy loves Torchwood. And he told me you did as well, Greggie. It's alright if you're busy now, you can finish up later. Greggie can stay the night. Of course, as long as you two are _quiet_. Please and thank you!"

They lean their foreheads together and chuckle. "Greggie?" he asks. Lestrade shrugs. Then, "Please tell me she did not just say that," Mycroft says.

"She has quite the mouth on her," Lestrade concedes.

"That may be so, but there are some times when I wish she wouldn't use it." Mycroft sighs then leans back and extends a hand. "Well, are you coming?"

Lestrade laughs and takes his hands. "But of course; your daughter and Captain Jack Harkness await."

As they walk into the room, the episode already started, Mycroft says a bit belatedly, "I've always preferred Ianto."

When both Lestrade and Charlotte start protesting, Mycroft knows that he worried for nothing; they'll get along _just_ fine.

* * *

><p><strong>So yes. There it is. I just wanted Mycroft to have a kid and have his lover meet her without him arranging it immaculately and shite. So there.<strong>

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